5. Nico
5
Nico
B lood pools at my feet, thick and dark against the concrete floor. The basement air is heavy with the metallic stench of death. I'm thirteen again, standing over my first kill, the knife slick in my trembling hands.
"Welcome to the family, Nico."
My father's voice echoes through the darkness, pride dripping from every syllable like poison. But this time, when I look up, it's not his face I see.
It's Isabella's.
Her eyes are wide with horror, revulsion twisting her beautiful features as she stares at what I've become. What I've always been.
I jolt awake, sweat coating my skin, heart hammering against my ribs. The digital clock reads 5:47 AM. Early morning light filters through the safe house windows, casting long shadows across unfamiliar walls.
Fuck.
The nightmare clings to me like a second skin, memories I've spent years burying, clawing their way to the surface. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the image of Isabella's disgusted expression.
She's not wrong to look at me that way. I am the monster they made me.
The coffee maker hums to life under my hands. I'm measuring out coffee when I hear soft footsteps behind me.
I turn, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.
Isabella stands in the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but my shirt. The white cotton falls to mid-thigh, leaving miles of tanned legs bare.
Her dark hair tumbles in messy waves past her shoulders, and without makeup, she looks younger, softer somehow.
Dangerously attractive.
"Good morning," she says, picking at the hem of my shirt.
My cock hardens instantly at the sight, and I have to force my gaze away from where the fabric pulls across her breasts, where her nipples strain against the thin cotton.
Fuck.
If she knew the things I wanted to do to her, she'd run screaming.
The dark, twisted fantasies that plague my mind.
Fantasies of her tied up, begging, completely at my mercy.
She's too pure, too good for the depraved shit I'm into.
"The delivery should be here soon," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She nods, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The movement makes the shirt ride up slightly, and I grip the counter behind me hard enough to hurt.
"About yesterday..." she starts, then stops, biting her lower lip. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. After the attack. You saved my life, and I was... ungrateful."
The admission clearly costs her something. Isabella Bellanti, now Moretti, isn't a woman used to apologizing.
"You were scared," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Fear makes people lash out."
"I wasn't scared." Her chin lifts defiantly, but I see the lie in her eyes. "I was angry. There's a difference."
I turn back to the coffee, needing the distraction. "Is there?"
She moves closer, and I catch the faint scent of my soap on her skin. Christ.
"You're bleeding."
Her fingers brush my wrist before I can pull away, ghosting over the graze I got during yesterday's attack. I hadn't even noticed it.
"It's nothing."
"Let me clean it." She's already reaching for the first aid kit on the counter. "It's the least I can do."
I should stop her. Should put distance between us before this gets complicated. But then her fingers are on my skin again, gentle as she dabs antiseptic on the wound, and I'm rooted to the spot.
"Does it hurt?" she asks softly, her breath warm against my shoulder.
Everything hurts. My head, my chest, every fucking nerve ending where her skin touches mine. But the pain isn't what concerns me.
It's the want.
The desperate, clawing need to push her against the counter and kiss her until she forgets her own name. To feel her body arch into mine, to hear those pretty lips gasp my name.
She looks up, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her breath catch. We're too close. The air between us feels charged, electric.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I track the movement like a predator. Like the monster I am.
"Nico..." she breathes.
I lean in, unable to stop myself. Her eyes flutter closed, dark lashes fanning against flushed cheeks. I can feel the heat of her mouth, so close to mine…
Ding dong!
The doorbell breaks the silence.
I jerk back, reality crashing in like cold water. What the fuck am I doing?
"That'll be Matteo," I say roughly, putting space between us. "There’s a pair of shorts back in the closet. Put them on."
She blinks, looking dazed for a moment before her walls slam back up. "Right. Of course."
I wait until she disappears down the hall before buzzing Matteo in. He takes one look at my face and raises an eyebrow.
"You look like shit."
"Thanks," I responded dryly.
I led him to my office, grateful for the distraction from thoughts of his sister in my shirt. "What did you find?"
His expression turns grim. "Viktor Petrov."
The name hits like a punch to the gut. Head of the Bratva, known for his ruthlessness and strategic mind. If he's behind the attacks...
"He's particularly invested in this situation," Matteo continues. "Word is, he's not happy about the alliance."
"When is Petrov ever happy?" I grab my jacket. "Set up a meeting. Now."
"Already done." He checks his watch. "We have an hour."
Perfect. Just enough time to get my head straight. To forget the way Isabella looked wearing my shirt, the soft sound she made when I almost kissed her.
Almost.
"I'm coming with you."
Isabella's voice makes us both turn. She's changed into one of my shirts and a pair of my cotton shorts, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
"Like hell you are," Matteo and I say in unison, probably the only thing we've ever agreed on.
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot I needed permission from a man to leave the house. Should I go back to my needlepoint while you handle the scary business stuff?"
The sarcasm drips from her voice.
God, she's magnificent when she's angry.
"This isn't a joke, Isabella," I growl, trying to ignore how good she looks in those fucking shorts. "Petrov is dangerous."
"Really? Is the head of the Russian mafia dangerous? Thank you for that shocking revelation. Here, I thought we were meeting up for tea and cookies."
Matteo's jaw ticks. "Bella, don't be difficult—"
"Don't 'Bella' me, you condescending ass!" She crosses her arms. "Someone's trying to kill me. I deserve to know why."
She's right, but there's no way in hell I'm taking her anywhere near Viktor Petrov. The stories I've heard about him... No. Just no.
"You're staying here," I say with finality. "End of discussion."
Her eyes narrow. "You know what? Fine. Go play with your little mafia friends. I'll just sit here and paint my nails or whatever it is you think women do all day."
"Isabella—"
But she's already storming off, probably plotting my murder. Fuck, she's hot when she's mad.
"Let's go," I growled at Matteo, heading for the door.
The drive to Petrov's mansion was tense, neither of us speaking.
Good.
The last thing I need is small talk with my brother-in-law, who'd happily put a bullet in my head if it wouldn't start a war.
Viktor's estate sprawls across several acres, all manicured lawns and pretentious architecture. His security is tight. Filled with armed guards at every entrance, cameras covering every angle. But they're expecting us, and we're waved through immediately.
The inside of the mansion is exactly what you'd expect from a Russian crime lord with more money than taste. Gold everywhere, crystal chandeliers, artwork that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime.
Viktor waits in his study, lounging behind a massive desk like he owns the fucking world. His long hair is pulled back in its usual man bun, and his gray eyes are cold as they assess us.
"Moretti. Bellanti." He gestures to the chairs before his desk. "Please, sit."
We don't.
"Cut the shit, Petrov," I say flatly. "We know you're behind the attacks."
A smile spreads across his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Straight to business. Always so direct, Moretti."
"Answer him," Matteo growls.
Viktor rises slowly, his 6'5" frame towering over the desk. "Yes. I ordered the attacks." His gaze fixed on me. "But killing your pretty bride was never the goal. Consider it a... warning shot."
My hands curl into fists. "A warning about what?"
"My shipment," he says, voice dropping dangerously low. "Three million in product, gone. Intercepted. And somehow, whoever did it knew exactly where to hit." He paces.
"The only people with access to that information were us... and our dear friends the Bellanti and the Moretti ."
"We had nothing to do with it," I snapped.
"Bullshit," Matteo cuts in. "The Bellanti didn't touch your shipment. We've been focused on the wedding."
Viktor's laugh is bitter. "Ah yes, the wedding. Such a convenient distraction, isn't it?"
"Watch your fucking mouth," I snarl, taking a step forward.
"Easy, Moretti." Viktor holds up his hands, but his eyes glitter with malice. "I believe you. Both of you. Which means..."
"You are right. We didn’t want to say anything until later, but there's a mole on the loose," Matteo finishes. "Someone's playing both sides."
"Precisely." Viktor moves to his bar, pouring three glasses of vodka. "Someone with access to all our organizations. Someone who knew about the shipment. ”
“We've been trying to keep it quiet. Until we find out who's behind these,” I murmur.
"Find the leak," Viktor says, offering us each a glass. "Before I'm forced to take more... permanent measures."
The threat hangs in the air between us. I take the vodka, but don't drink it.
"And Isabella?" I ask, my voice deadly quiet.
"Your wife is safe. For now." His smile turns sharp. "Consider her shooting a gesture of good faith. Next time, I won't miss."